


Cold days, warm nights

by Kartaylir



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Blizzards & Snowstorms, Cunnilingus, F/M, Fireside Sex, Hand Jobs, Injury, cuddling for warmth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:14:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26332462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kartaylir/pseuds/Kartaylir
Summary: When a snowstorm separates General Tullius from his troops, he seeks refuge in a nearby ruin and finds he's not the first one to do so.
Relationships: Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Tullius
Comments: 2
Kudos: 30
Collections: Press Start VI, Small FEAR 2020





	Cold days, warm nights

**Author's Note:**

  * For [StopTalkingAtMe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StopTalkingAtMe/gifts).



It was only on the second day of snowstorms that General Tullius was separated from his guard. Skyrim could ever be unkind, let alone in winter or near the mountain of High Hrothgar. And yet he had heard his soldiers whisper that this was unnatural, some strange sorcery to keep them from the meeting the Greybeards and Dragonborn had brokered.

Something to leave Ulfric Stormcloak without any to gainsay him.

But that was far less urgent to Tullius than the loss of his horse. He’d barely escaped having it fall upon him, and if its body had trapped him in the snow then he’d have been dead as well. It seemed like hours that he wandered through that snow, and yet he knew it could not have been that long by how he retained the function of all his limbs. Finally he stumbled over a pile of stones, stacked together as some cold offering of direction. The cloth wrapped around them was nearly worn away into threads, and so faded by the sun that any indication of color or loyalty was long gone.

Still, it was more to guide him than merely his feet breaking through ice-crusted snow, with the way the wind billowed about until all he could see was an endless flurry. It was perhaps only a few seconds until he could see the next pile through a gap in the snow, and yet it seemed like hours beneath the blades of wind.

When he reached that pile he nearly collapsed atop it. Clasped his hands at every worn gap in the stone. He raised his head despite the ice forming at the corners of his eyes, and caught the smallest glimpse of something carved ahead. 

He’d take whatever the ruins might hold over the snow. Over limbs lost to frostbite and a body vanished under the ceaseless white.

And when he stepped beneath the outcropping of stone, he saw faint footprints that had not yet been brushed away by wind or the steady fall of snow. The pattern of them was odd, each footprint so close behind the other. Hardly the dragging, unsteady step of the draugr, or the confident stride of some adventurer.

He’d seen such from Altmer before, Thalmor and those on his side alike. Something about one of their pantheon, about long lives and small steps. If only it were that easy for him. 

And then, from the mountain above, he heard something crack. A branch snapping, or perhaps ice broken loose. It was on him in an instant, the crash of rock and snow harsh enough to snap trees in half, to knock loose stones free from ground and marker to barrel down with the wave of snow.

It threw him back, behind the pillars and against the wall. Amid the roar he heard the sound of breaking bones. Stones on the ground beneath him and blood flowing down his left arm to stain that leather bracer. And so that arm hung useless at his side. He’d never been one to curse the Divines rather than the actions of men and mer, and yet this of all things tempted him.

And yet there, as his knees ached, as his body was worn beneath adrenaline and cold, he could see that the door to the tomb had swung open. Better to brave the draugr than to freeze slowly. Than to be swept away by another flurry of snow and ice.

In the first room he entered the only draugr present were fully dead. Burned to ash with a black mark left on the wall behind them. There was little else, just scraps of rotting food and torn leather as if some bandits had once made their home here. Skyrim had gained so many such men and mer in recent years. Another mess for the Empire to clean up, when the undead or the trolls or other creatures didn’t get to them first. Or, in unsettling new developments, the dragons.

There weren’t footprints to follow there, with no snow or dust to make them evident. But as only one arched tunnel led onward, Tullius didn’t need them. He’d just take a few steps to scout ahead, to see if anyone had left the supplies he needed. Even a single potion might save him. He drew his sword with his good hand, though even that weight seemed suddenly dizzying. 

His vision began to blur as he saw bloodstains and charred draugr alike. Certainly the work of a mage, and a skilled one to have survived so far alone. _Thalmor, perhaps,_ he thought, and could not help but curse that idea.

It was only when he felt the stone against his knees that he knew how weak he'd become. A figure stood above him, tall and golden. And, if he could trust his understanding of her expression, concerned as well. For a moment he found himself confused, his thoughts slowed by all the harm his body had suffered. 

But the figure wore robes of green and yellow, with a waist encircled by a belt of teeth and bone. Pouches hung from it, displaying the edges of potions and loose leaves of herbs. The staff in her hands was carved with eagle and dragon alike, and that finally broke through the fog of his thoughts. An Altmer mage, as he had guessed. And yet not one of the Thalmor.

The room echoed with a shout; the mage stumbled. The draugr had found them.

Tullius rushed forth despite the ache settling into his knees. He had so much and so little love for growing old. He hewed at the minor draugr that rushed into the tunnel with one hand, for he knew all too well the adrenaline would quickly fade from him. It fell, silent save for the clatter of rusted metal. Then he stared as the mage turned and returned the other draugr’s shout with something alike and yet far stronger. Something that might as well have turned her enemies to dust.

The rest of their foes fell to that single blow and Tullius leaned against the wall, still barely clasping his blade in one hand. “Dragonborn. Did the storm trap you here as well?”

She shrugged. “Let’s talk about it after I get your arm patched up. General.”

He wished that he could argue, insist on finding what remained of the troops that had come with him. But if they’d not found their way to shelter already they’d be dead. And to undo that was beyond the power of even the Dragonborn.

So he let her lead the way down the winding tunnels, past the dusty corpses of draugr and their long-rusted weapons. To a heavy door that was made something akin to iron, and yet it had not rusted. The carvings upon it depicted several nords kneeling before a masked figure and the small silhouettes of dragons in the distance.

He didn’t let himself slump down once they were on the other side of the door, even knowing this hero was with him. Even knowing that if she’d chosen a side the war would already be over; but then perhaps that simply made him more desirous to be sure of her loyalties. To ensure they’d have one more ally against Stormcloaks and Thalmor alike.

The room itself was small and smelled strongly of burnt flesh. A scent no doubt due, to the arm of a draugr which lay amid the scraps of wood and coal that formed the fire. Even the warmth of that seemed to sting his battered limbs.

At least there were no more bodies than what the fire held. The only items of note were a pile of blankets that might generously be termed a bedroll, and satchels stacked against one of the walls, with potions and notes alike peeking out their tops. He caught sight of intricate diagrams and more personal sketches of vistas and herbs.

His attention was drawn back to the Dragonborn as she spoke. “I’ll splint your arm and do what I can for the wound, General, and then you should rest. The storm should blow over by the morning.”

Again, he was too tired to argue. To do anything save hold forth his arm and let her pull it straight, to curse every inch of this frozen place at the pain that brought. His life had left him with no shortage of curses to offer.

The splint she gave him seemed as much made of bone as wood, but it held the arm in its place, and she had bandages and potions as well. “You’ll live,” she said. “As for why I’m here, this seemed a more interesting place to wait than amid the silence of High Hrothgar. It’s unfortunate the draugr returned more quickly than I’d expected.”

Tullius steeled his expression at that. The draugr might be smaller threats than some, but it would hardly do well by Nirn should their lone dragonborn fall to them. He turned his gaze again to her, and tried to dismiss the pain in his old bones. He saw a set of small medals, almost coins, hanging amid the other items at her belt. Records of comrades lost. He wished such items had only existed for individual soldiers, rather than whole legions lost to the Thalmor.

“What legion were you in?” he asked.

She frowned, then gestured to a huddle of blankets. “You need your rest, General. You of all people should know to take that when you can.” 

He opened his mouth, perhaps to argue, to ask if he'd ever seen her before. There had been so many soldiers, so many nights where they'd laid awake and feared the morning. But pain and exhaustion gainsaid him, and so he slumped into the pile of blankets instead. Once he’d situated himself there she added a few more branches to the fire and then curled up against him. In such a place, it would be foolish to reject such an easy way to keep their bodies warm.

And sleep came more easily than he'd expected. 

He awoke later to find himself curled up close to her, with intertwined blankets all that separated their bodies. She was already awake, golden eyes wide as she looked down to him. She gently reached out a hand to cup his chin.

“Did you sleep like this often, in the war? I certainly did.”

He looked into her eyes and did not speak. He could remember a great many moments such as this in the Great War, with soldiers curled up against each other. With the injured and tired seeking whatever comfort they could find. And he was both, now. And so much older than so many of those soldiers had become.

“What Legion?”

“The Eighth, once. Then the Twelfth under General Jonna.” She shivered, but he doubted it was due to all this cold. 

He recognized her, then. Her robes had changed, and perhaps there were a few more lines around her eyes, but hardly enough to alter her beyond recognition. Beyond the memory of flesh, for they'd had little time together past that. 

“The Eighth died well,” Tullius said, and knew it wasn’t enough. The coins were for cohorts, or favored companions now lost. If she’d had one for every soldier the Eighth Legion had lost then none could have stood beneath the weight of it.

“They died.”

“But the war isn’t over. Just paused. You know that as well as I.”

“I know that I’ve given enough to the Empire.” She pressed her lips together and made her expression into something stern, steel or ice or stone. 

He bit back his desire to question that. Wars could eat up every bit of suffering imaginable and yet the only enough they cared for was that of victory. But she, of all people, would not be so easily convinced by such. He was old enough to remember that. To know how easily he could break things between them.

So he lowered his lips to her hand, slowly, a question that she could deny at any time.

But she did not deny it. He kissed her fingers, as golden as septims, as priceless as memory. “Then let the Empire give you something back.”

She shifted beneath her blankets then, rolling them up as she slid toward him. There was a warm glint in her eye, and Tullius couldn’t help a moment of suspicion before he dismissed it. If the Dragonborn had been on the Thalmor’s side, they’d already have been lost. And his injuries weren’t so severe as to make it unwelcome. Else he’d not have started this.

“You’ll be warmer if you share my blankets,” he said. “I’m too bundled up to be injured by it.”

Their small fire was fading. A mage couldn’t keep it burning forever, not with so little fuel. And Tullius at least wasn’t so desperate to try burning any further remnants of the Draugr. He didn’t want to fight anything that ran toward him while it was on fire.

So she gave a half-nod from where she’d propped her head on one hand and rolled closer. Pushed their blankets together so as to overlap the cloth, then started to slide them atop Tullius as well as she slid under every layer of them.

He felt her press against him, against the ragged clothing that was all that remained of what he’d worn under his armor. Against the bruises that dotted his body. But she was careful of his injured arm, the too-stiff fingers. Left that side of him untouched.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell you you need to get the blood flowing there,” she said, golden lips curled into something of a smirk. 

Tullius raised an eyebrow, and composed his voice into the perfect impression of Niben nobility. “Your intent is clear enough already.”

And then, because she was warm and there and not wrapped up in all of this (except for all the places where she was), he turned his head and kissed her properly.

Her lips were dry, her mouth warm and wet in a way that made his own skin tingle. She shifted, rolled so she had one leg twisted around his, their bodies close and warm together. Half-atop him, perhaps, tight enough together to leave no air between them.

It was no surprise when she slipped her hand down over his stomach, across their interlocked legs. There was something smooth to her touch, a sort of certainty from practice beyond that of a human lifespan. Again his skin tingled. He could feel the press of his cock against the blankets.

The pressure of her slim fingers explored everywhere but there.Paused over an old scar, skin twisted and burned by a Thalmor mage. The white lines of cuts whose origins he couldn’t all remember. 

He shifted, turned to place his hand on her breast and find the line of her lips with his own. She tasted of herbs and smoke, and he could find nothing of the cold and death of this place within her. That would be enough. For the moments in between the ache in his arm, the scent of blood when he changed his bandages. His hand cupped the curve of her breast, golden as some bowl used by half-forgotten Alessians and yet far softer.

Their lips parted, and again he could feel how the cold had chapped them, drawn out the warmth until the skin cracked. A breath. His thumb brushed across one gilded nipple, then traced down a line over her stomach.

Froze as her fingers slowly moved up from his thigh, from the twist of their legs. That slightest pressure makes him run his tongue over chapped lips, and he groaned as she settled her hand around the base of his cock. Her fingers were warm; he twisted in that grip impatiently. From her touch, from his memories, he knew she could be quick.

Instead her pace was slow, agonizing. He kissed her again, wrapped his leg around hers, buried his own hand between her legs. None of these tempted her toward swiftness. He straightened his back, arched it again, and let out a frustrated noise between his teeth. His good hand moved over to clasp her hip, held on tighter than he meant to. There was so little to grab there, the flesh lean with a mage’s musculature.

She smiled, and he could feel the spread of her fingers, the pressure as they closed again. Her other hand brushed warmth across him, some gentle spell to heat the air trapped within them. And finally she heightened her pace. “Wouldn’t want you to freeze,” she whispered.

He grasped tighter, pulled her into another kiss and this time he swore he could taste the feel of her magic, something kept in flesh and hands and voice. Pain spiked in his other arm, his leg, but then what sort of soldier would he be if he was so easily overcome?

He tried to hold as tight to her as he could, and yet that broke as she continued. As every focus was worn away beneath that so gentle touch. Noise slipped out between his teeth, his muscles quivered and with that another spike of pain. One easier to ignore amid the apex of this, the intersection of how he wanted to thrust into every touch and how small this oasis of warmth was that they possessed between them.

She smiled again as he finally settled back, drawing breath into his tired lungs. Let her hand linger around his thigh as the other reached out to clasp the fingers that he’d released from her hip. He let her guide his hand to her lips, then back down, his fingers wet against her skin. And wetter still once she guided his touch again between her legs, between the folds there as she moved her hips. 

Tullius no longer felt the cold. He looked to the fire and saw it burning hotter. Its flames sent shadows over the carvings of long-dead priests upon the walls. And so he attempted to turn, to shift himself despite his shattered arm. 

She saw what he attempted and lifted the blanket with one hand, used the other to aid him as he slid his body down. The length of cloth was long enough, the heat of their bodies sufficient together.

He let his injured arm fall to the blanket beneath them, or at least the wood and cloth that formed the splint. In doing this he put weight upon his other hand, on the wet, golden flesh surrounding the glimmer of her clit, and she gasped, words he did not understand interwoven beneath it.

This hand he moved to her thigh as he lowered his head, placed his lips wherever his hand had touched her. Stomach, thigh, the hardened muscle beneath her skin. She stretched her own hand down to steady him, to hold his skull tight against her.

Despite the fire, the stone was cold to his feet. His body jutted out the other end of the cocoon they'd built. And yet his head was warm, his chest alight between the sharp lines of her legs. His tongue slipped forth, as practiced in this as in any other art to fill the waiting between battles.  
She tightened the blankets around them. Sparks alight from her fingers. He lifted his eyes to gaze upon her, the stretch of her stomach, the soft lines of breasts flattened upon bare skin. Her smile as he lowered his gaze to begin again.

He had no need of sight for such matters. A sigh, a quiver, the twist of her hips when his tongue slowly slid down across her. The curl of it around her clit. How carefully she kept herself from too loud a gasp.

The blanket slipped beneath him and his arm ached, his other limbs took the weight of it and ached in turn. His youth was long past, that time when he had full agility and joints that didn’t object to the cold. When he had the strength of a young man who’d not seen Hammerfell lost, seen half of Skyrim claimed by a foolish upstart. Who couldn’t have conceived that all of Skyrim might be lost.

He damned Ulfric for not seeing that, for deeming a few words in a loud voice enough to do as he willed. 

In that worry his attention was drawn away, his body stilled. She rested one hand upon his head, twisted fingers in his hair and held him against her. Tullius did not complain of the intent, the focus. The warmth of her around him, the heat from her fingertips. Still his feet were cold, and he attempted to draw them up toward the warmth between them.

Her hand wavered in the air as he sought across her flesh with his tongue, curled it around that small clit. Her fingers closed in upon themselves, lighting radiated out from them and she breathed in quick, shallow gasps. Laid a hand across her stomach as her limbs relaxed, her body a silent contrast to the ecstasy of her face.

Tullius smiled, and pulled himself back into the blankets yet again. Despite all his worries, he was a soldier. He learned how to wait long ago. And he had something besides healing to pass that time. To occupy himself with until the storm abated.

For all storms did, in time. 


End file.
